Only Human
by Xirysa
Summary: Part I of III. She is only a woman, a former soldier who now carries the greatest honors and burdens. Fiora must learn to fill the roles expected of her as the new marchioness of Pherae, or resign herself to failure once more.


**Only Human**

**Part I**

-x-x-x-

She feels small and alone as she sits quietly in this large, foreboding room, upon a bed with pure silk linens and herself in a garment that is anything but practical.

How did she get here, Fiora wonders as she traces imaginary patterns on the sheets—a tough Ilian weed now surrounded by the delicate flowers of the Lycian nobility? One hand reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear. She knows the answer, but the question is one she will not ask. It frightens her.

The small diamond set into the band of silver Fiora now wears on the second finger of her left hand catches the candlelight and sparkles, glinting brilliantly on the walls.

A few more minutes pass without incident when finally the door opens and then closes gently behind him, the _click_ as the mechanism locks into place echoing faintly in the great chamber. They will not be disturbed tonight.

He approaches her and sits beside her on the bed. Her breath catches in her throat as Eliwood raises one hand to her cheek. She fights the urge to flinch, but still is surprised when his touch is soft and gentle. She averts her eyes—her gaze falls once again to the delicate ring she now wears. She had been told that it belonged to his grandmother, a priceless heirloom of Pherae's ruling house.

"Look at me," he murmurs. "Please."

She does as he asks.

Eliwood smiles. "Thank you."

-x-x-x-

Military and political meetings are a strange place for a woman to find herself, and yet it is he who asks that she join him.

"They're very dull," Eliwood tells her, "all those old war ministers and nobles who think they know everything. The only person there who knows what he's talking about is Marcus, but no one listens to him just because he's a knight."

"What about me?" Fiora asks. "I too am a knight."

Eliwood looks at her out of the corner of his eye as he works to fasten an ornate rapier at his side. "You are the lady of Pherae," he says. "You aren't a knight anymore."

Fiora reaches toward him and helps him tie the sheath securely to his belt. Then she asks, "Then why do you want me to come?" The sword, easily recognizable as a piece of fine craftsmanship and expert smithing, rests easily at her husband's hip—her mind briefly goes to the council room, where her own silver spear made in the Ilian fashion is now mounted on the wall for decoration. Her fingers twitch in longing; she aches to have the comforting weight in her hands once again.

"There is a curious phenomenon where men seem to loosen their tongues considerably in the presence of beautiful women," he says. "They assume that behind a pretty face lies a mind only fit for gossip and fashion."

She can feel his comment taking effect as the heat begins to rise in her cheeks. She fights it down and says instead, "But they know I am—_was_ a mercenary, that I am no stranger to warfare. They won't say anything."

Eliwood turns to her, blue eyes dark with some emotion she cannot read. "But they do not know how good of an actor you are." He smiles at her again and leans down to brush his lips against her forehead.

_An actor,_ she wants to ask, _or a puppet?_But fear stays her tongue, and so she says nothing.

-x-x-x-

The meeting goes smoothly; the only reactions to her arrival are a few mutterings here and there and one barely concealed comment about a woman's place.

"My most sincere apologies, milady," the man says as he bows deeply to her. "It is not often that we find the graceful presence of a woman of your standing and breeding in a gathering of stuffy, crotchety old men such as ourselves."

The remark about her heritage stings, but Fiora does not let it show. "I was not aware that Lycian custom dictated that a woman not be present in the council room during a meeting. I would like to observe the proceedings, however, if you and your esteemed colleagues find that acceptable." From across the room Marcus' nod of approval is barely decipherable; Eliwood says nothing, but Fiora knows what he thinks.

No one says anything to oppose her intent. Fiora takes a seat just behind Eliwood at the head of the table, and the meeting begins.

Anything pertaining to the military is quickly dealt with—pirate raids to the south and bandit attacks on the small farms and hamlets on the Bernese border to the east. Troops are to be sent to quell the attacks and protect the innocents at the borders. A simple solution, Fiora thinks as she looks steadily at the wall on the other side of the room where her spear reflects the firelight from the hearth below it. A simple solution indeed.

The politics come next.

"Marquess Laus sends a request for reconciliation and forgiveness for his and his father's actions from some years ago," one of the advisors says. "He claims to have been bespelled by a stranger's dark arts from those days and acted in a manner unbefitting one of the Lycian brotherhood."

Eliwood says nothing for a moment. "I must consider this," he says.

"Very well, sire. We await your decision."

They talk for an hour longer about other things—taxing the poorer farmers living near the Bernese border and the rising price of grains and meats from the other cantons in exchange for Pherae's marine foodstuffs. Finally the meeting is adjourned.

"What do you think?" Eliwood asks when they reach the privacy of their chambers.

Fiora shakes her head and takes a seat near the fire. "About what?" she asks.

"Everything." He takes a seat at his desk and looks at her expectantly as his hands ready a sheet of parchment, an inkwell and a quill. "You did very well today; I want to know your opinion of everything that was discussed."

She is quiet for a moment as she replays the day's events in her mind. "Caution should be used when sending soldiers to quell the bandits and pirates," she says. "Even if the attacks and raids aren't serious it would not do to send new recruits as most of the advisors seem to think. The brigands can be surprisingly well-organized when prompted to defend themselves and it is then that their true strength and ferocity come into play—like a wild animal backed into a corner."

He nods and scribbles something on the parchment. "And what of the situation with Laus?"

Again a few moments of silence pass between the two. "I was not there when Lord Erik and his father turned traitor," she said honestly, "so I do not feel as if I have the right to pass judgment on him."

"There is no doubt in my mind that Erik has some ulterior motive," Eliwood says. "He says he wants peace, but I fear that something will happen the moment my back is turned."

"Invite him here," Fiora suggests, "as a guest. We can watch him for a while and see what his motives seem to be."

Eliwood considers her words. "That sounds like a reasonable plan."

She nods. "Send word to Ostia so that Lord Hector knows of your plan. But be discreet."

The quill scribbles on the parchment again. "Very well." He looks at her. "Advisors can only help me so much—what would I do without you here?"

"My lord," she murmurs softly. "You praise me far too much. I am only here for you." Again, her words are nothing short of sincere.

He smiles at her and says nothing.

-x-x-x-

The proof of her failure always comes in the form of blood—friends and comrades slain and plummeting to the thrashing seas below, or a bright crimson stain splattering the untouched snow of Ilia and bodies buried beneath frost and wind.

Red on white—it is a combination she has never liked. Fiora tosses the dress into the hearth; the flames lick at the cloth greedily.

"Please draw up a bath for me," she tells a waiting maid. "I feel sullied." The maid says nothing and scurries away quickly in fear of incurring her lady's wrath.

A while later Fiora steps into the steaming water of the ivory washtub. She sits in it and draws her legs up to her chest. A lazy pink trail fans out from between her thighs, and Fiora feels her throat tighten.

"Leave me," she manages to choke out to the girl waiting on her. She curtsies quickly and exits the room, leaving Fiora alone in the rapidly cooling water.

The growing chill is a welcome sensation for Fiora as the tears trickle down her face and into the dirty bath water below—it reminds her of the cold wind of Ilia, and for a moment she rests her hand over her womb, wishing earnestly that she was home again.

-x-x-x-

Word arrives from Ostia days later in the form of a familiar sandy-haired spy. "Lord Hector thinks your plan is excellent," Matthew says in the privacy of one of the small rooms that make up Fiora and Eliwood's chambers. He leans against the wall. "He plans to come here himself a few days after Erik's arrival in an act of peace and goodwill."

Eliwood chuckles. "Hector making peace with Erik? How much of that was his own idea?"

The spy grins lazily. "Oswin may have had a hand in that. I have to hand it to that man—he must have more patience than I thought to deal with both a headstrong young marquess and an equally stubborn bride."

Fiora blinks. "So they're married then?"

"Yes. About a month ago." Matthew smiles grimly. "It's been tough on both of them—an old soldier taking a much younger cleric as his second wife and making her the new mother of his son."

"I'm sure Serra doesn't care much."

Matthew shrugs. "She acts like she doesn't—flouncing around the castle like she owns the place, twittering to anyone who will listen how great she and her husband are, what a darling child Bors is. Things like that. But you can tell that it's starting to get to her."

"I see." Eliwood is silent for a moment. "What of Ostia's marchioness? She and Serra were close during the campaign, were they not?"

The spy nods. "It's good that they have each other," Matthew says. "Lady Priscilla is quiet, but she has a sort of presence in the castle. Maybe that's why we haven't killed each other yet." He laughs weakly, one hand rubbing absentmindedly at the cruel scar running along his jawline and down the side of his neck. "Or maybe we haven't just because we're all too tired of bloodshed."

-x-x-x-

Eliwood's body is warm and comforting, gentle and yet still undeniably sensual when they make love, but there is still something about him that is distant and cold—detached. Fiora can see it in his eyes and the hesitant way he holds her body even as he pleasures her and she does her best to do the same for him.

She tells herself that she does not know what it is that forces him to hold her at arm's length, but something deep inside her knows. That unnamed fear both binds Fiora and pushes her away, and it is all she can do to keep herself from running away entirely.

Instead, she holds him close as she feels herself striving for release, and when Eliwood presses himself against her as he approaches his own climax soon after, Fiora wonders if she is only imagining the fluttering of his heart beneath her fingertips—so much like the fragile wingbeats of a young bird, she thinks, or the frantic pounding of the heart of a child.

-x-x-x-

Lord Erik of Laus arrives a few weeks later, and Lord Hector from Ostia a few days after. Pherae is abuzz with the arrival of the nobles, and the castle is full of frantic servants cleaning and washing the stone halls in anticipation of a ball that is to be held.

The eve of the ball finds Fiora flitting in and out between the crowds of nobles like some strange and silent ghost—a pale and humble daisy amongst the beautiful roses of the court, their thorns snagging at her as she passes them by.

With a jolt of recognition, Fiora spots a pair of familiar faces from the Ostian retinue near one of the grand windows.

"Good evening," she says as she approaches them. "Lady Priscilla, Lady Serra."

Priscilla smiles and returns the greeting with a quiet grace. "Good evening, Lady Fiora," she replies. "It is good to see that you are well."

"Thank you," Fiora says. She turns to Serra. "Congratulations on your marriage, Lady Serra," she tells the new bride. "Had you sent word of the event, Lord Eliwood and I would have made certain to be in attendance."

Serra smiles, and for the first time since their arrival Fiora notices an aged fatigue about the cleric's eyes and mouth that she had never seen before. "Thank you, Lady Fiora," she says, almost offhandedly. "It was a very small affair—with everything that's been happening lately Oswin and I didn't really want a large ceremony. I hope you understand."

"Of course. It is only natural."

The three speak for a little while longer before their respective roles force them apart: Priscilla is accosted by minor noble ladies trying to buy their way into the inner circles of the Ostian court while Oswin finds Serra and asks if she wishes to dance. The former cleric's response to the request is a delighted, if not slightly surprised smile, and as they disappear into the crowd Fiora catches snatches of a conversation between two over-dressed women about low-born harlots with a lust for power.

With a pang of guilt, Fiora realizes that she is happy that it is not her they speak about.

"Lady Fiora?"

She turns to the speaker and finds herself facing Marquess Laus. "Lord Erik," she says and curtsies. "My apologies for being a poor host—I fear I have neglected to see to your well-being these past few days."

Erik bows in return and dismisses her concerns with a flippant wave of his hand. "It is no fault of your own," he tells her. "As the lady of House Pherae I am sure you were otherwise occupied with other things. But now, seeing such an exquisite lady such as yourself alone I find that I must ask for a dance."

Fiora has no choice. "Of course," she says. "It would be my honor."

"No, milady." Erik bows again and takes her hand. "The pleasure is mine."

It is a waltz. As the dance begins Erik speaks.

"Pherae is a wonderful place," he tells her. "So calm and serene—the sea lends its beauty to the land."

Fiora lowers her eyelids. "Thank you," she says. "My lord husband cares for the land as if it were his own child."

Erik nods. "Children," he begins, "are such wonderful things. So young and innocent—a perfectly carefree life."

"Indeed," Fiora replies. The music begins to slow down as the song reaches its conclusion and Fiora is glad to be free of Erik's hand on her waist and the way his eyes seem to linger on her far longer than is appropriate. Her mind flashes back to earlier days, huddled around a small fire with her sisters for warmth as a blizzard raged outside, and of catcalls and drunken jeering in darkened alleyways and passages.

The waltz ends. Erik removes his hand from her waist, though he still keeps his gaze fixed upon her. "I long for a child of my own, you see. I'm sure you've heard of the conflicts between Laus and the rest of Lycia in the past. Unfortunate, really, that my father and I were forced to be pawns in those games."

Fiora nods. "I had heard something of it, yes," she says carefully. "But I was under the impression that these events happened some time ago?" She lets her question trail of as Eliwood's words from before echo dimly in her mind.

_There is a curious phenomenon where men seem to loosen their tongues considerably in the presence of beautiful women—they assume that behind a pretty face lies a mind only fit for gossip and fashion._

He nods. "My father—may he rest in peace! —fell under the spell of a man who promised him wealth and glory beyond imagining. This man told my father that Lycia would be recognized as the greatest nation of Elibe. This was all my father wanted."

She chooses her next words carefully. "Your father sounds like he was a fine man," she begins slowly. "I wish I had the opportunity to speak with him. I am sorry for your loss."

"Thank you, Lady Fiora," Erik says.

"Lady Priscilla spoke of him once," Fiora continues. With silent satisfaction she notes the way Erik's face pales at the mention of Ostia's marchioness. "She told me of your father's hospitality; his people spoke of him often, she said." She smiles.

Erik seems to hesitate for a moment before he speaks again. "Yes," he replies slowly, "the citizens of Laus felt strongly for my father. I am afraid that the remainder of Lycia does not feel any love or kinship for my beloved canton after what happened there."

Fiora nods. "I understand," she says softly. "War is a terrible thing—it rips families apart."

"Indeed." Erik is quiet for a moment. "This is why I wish for a child of my own—to repair the damage my father and I unknowingly caused. Children have a way of bringing about peace that adults cannot, regardless of how well-intentioned they may be."

"I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors, Lord Erik," she says.

Erik smiles at her; the look in his eyes reminds Fiora of a fishwife inspecting her husband's catch, tossing out any fish that will not be of any use to them. "Thank you, Lady Fiora" he says softly. "Your words are reassuring."

As Erik bows and takes his leave of her, it is all Fiora can do to stop herself from shuddering.

-x-x-x-

"You and Erik spoke for a long time," Eliwood says when they return to their chambers after the ball.

Fiora nods. "He is planning something," she says, "but I don't know what."

Eliwood exhales sharply. "Knowing Erik, that could be anything. He may be a coward, but he is shrewd and cunning. He could be dangerous." He sighs and looks at Fiora; the smile he gives her is tired, but thankful. "You did well tonight," he says. "Thank you."

"My lord."

-x-x-x-

Red, red eyes in the dark. They watch her closely, and she finds herself unable to look away.

_Mesmerized._

"What do you want of me?" she wails to the darkness. "Tell me, please!"

A flicker of emotion behind the vivid red. Understanding, and pain.

Somewhere in the distance, she hears the haunting melody of a wooden flute and the echo of a deep and ancient grief.

She awakens to an empty bed and the taste of a hollow promise upon her lips.

-x-x-x-

A week later the Ostian entourage prepares to leave. Priscilla finds Fiora the night before their departure, chewing her lower lip nervously as she makes certain that no one will overhear them.

"What is it?" Fiora asks. "Has something happened?"

Priscilla shakes her said. "Nothing has happened. Not yet." She pauses for a moment. "Please watch yourself around Erik," she says. "We spoke at the ball, and though he was courteous there was something… Disconcerting about him. Be careful, Fiora. Please."

Fiora takes Priscilla's hands in her own and gives the other woman what she hopes is a reassuring smile. "I will be fine, Priscilla," she says. "Lord Eliwood and I suspect that Erik is planning something – it will be alright."

The lady of Ostia still seems uncomfortable. "Matthew is to stay here," she said, "for both your protection…" She falters for a moment, her lower lip finding its way between her teeth again before she continues. "And as a way to send messages without them being intercepted. He has orders from both Lord Hector and Lord Eliwood."

"Thank you, Priscilla," Fiora says softly. "I truly appreciate this."

Priscilla smiles and pulls her hands away slowly. "We are friends, Fiora," she says softly. "This is what friends do."

-x-x-x-

It is rare for Fiora to find time for herself, and so the few moments she has to be alone during the day are precious and coveted. She will not be missed until the evening—such an opportunity should not go to waste.

Her slippers make no sound in the stone corridor as she walks toward the council room, eyes focused straight ahead as she passes the servants going about their daily work. They do not speak to her, and she does not speak to them as she follows the now-familiar path to the great room where her most treasured possession remains mounted on the wall like some delicate plaything.

"Lady Fiora." Erik's voice cuts through the silence, and she finds herself flinching unconsciously. She did not expect anyone else to be wandering the halls—much less a visiting dignitary. Fiora turns to him and offers what she hopes is a pleasant smile.

"Lord Erik," she says. "Is there anything I may help you with?"

Erik shakes his head. "I was merely returning to the chambers you and your lord husband so graciously allowed for my stay here. Sir Marcus had said he would send a page with me to show me the way back from the dining hall, but I sent the boy away and now…" He lets his sentence trail off and chuckles. "You see the predicament I have found myself in."

"I see." She turns slowly to face him. "The halls of the castle hold many twists and turns—it took me many weeks to learn my way around the keep without assistance."

"Thank you." Erik looks around the halls appreciatively. "Castle Laus is nowhere near this large," he tells her.

She wonders if she has only imagined the admiring tone in his voice. "Thank you," she tells him, "but it is hardly my doing. Castle Pherae has been in Lord Eliwood's family for generations."

Erik stops, and Fiora turns to look at him. "Ah," he tells her, "but I am certain that none of Pherae's previous ladies were as graceful or beautiful as you."

"Thank you, Lord Erik," Fiora tells him. "I am flattered."

"Naturally." He steps toward her. "As of now, as you surely know, I remain unmarried. I would be honored to be wedded to a fine and upstanding lady such as yourself." Erik smiles. "Lord Eliwood does not know what a treasure he has."

"Lord Erik, I—"

"Ah. Lord Erik."

Welcome for the distraction, Fiora turns to face the speaker; Eliwood approaches them, his strides long and purposeful, a simple rapier tied securely at his hip. "Lord Eliwood," she says—it is difficult to keep the relief out of her voice, but somehow she manages to do so.

Erik does not seem pleased. "Lord Eliwood," he replies cordially enough, but even despite not being familiar with the games and politics of the nobility Fiora can sense his displeasure. "I must thank you for the hospitality you and Lady Fiora have shown me."

"Not at all," Eliwood replies. He stands beside Fiora and places a hand on her shoulder. "Marcus told me that you were still unfamiliar with the layout of Castle Pherae—I hoped to find you before you reached your rooms to see if you would care to spar with me." He smiles, and somehow Fiora is unsurprised by how cold it is. "Like old times."

"I remember those days," Erik says, "though I am afraid I must pass. I am out of practice—surely you would best me. I only wish for a few hours to myself until the evening meal, if that is acceptable."

Eliwood removes his hand from Fiora's shoulder and allows it to rest gently upon the hilt of his rapier. "I understand," he says. "Would you care for an escort?"

Almost indecipherably, Erik nods. "Thank you," he says.

"It is my pleasure." Eliwood turns to one of the servants passing in the corridor, and the man bows low as he awaits his orders. "Milikin," he says, "please escort Marquess Laus back to his rooms. He and his retinue leave tomorrow morning—it is important that he gets his rest."

"I understand, milord," the man says before straightening, and with a shock Fiora recognizes the man's sandy hair, even if it has been combed and tamed into order. Matthew then turns and bows to Erik. "Lord Erik, this way, if you please."

Erik nods and follows Matthew down the hall, glancing over his shoulder only once before they turn the corner. When they are gone, Eliwood turns to Fiora and takes her hand in his. She looks up at him, and his shocked to find traces of anger in his gaze. "My lord?" she ventures cautiously.

"Did Erik do anything to you?" he asks, voice soft and dangerous.

Fiora shakes her head. "No, my lord," she replies. "He did nothing—I am fine."

Eliwood nods, his expression relieved, though he does not seem to be fully convinced. "Will you come with me?" he asks her.

"Of course." She follows him silently as he leads them through the halls of Castle Pherae, and is unsurprised when she finds that they are in their personal chambers. They enter without speaking, and after Eliwood locks the door behind them, she is surprised to find herself held tightly in his arms. "My lord," she begins even as he brushes his lips against her own, her forehead, her eyelids and jawline, along her neck and collarbone. "My lord, please. This is not appropriate, you have duties to attend to…"

But Eliwood does not seem to hear her. "Oh, Fiora," he says, pressing one final kiss to her hairline before reaching down and placing his arm behind her knees, then straightening so that she is cradled gently against his chest as he carries her to their bed. "What would I do without you?"

"My lord…"

Finally Eliwood presses his lips firmly against her own, and any further conversation is swallowed by the sound of their sighs mingling softly in the solitude of their bedroom.

-x-x-x-

* * *

><p><strong>Xirysa Says:<strong> First of all, thank you to my wonderful beta **Asherien** for dealing with me bugging her about this—I really appreciated it.

Now. This story initially started as me writing an Eliwood/Fiora story as a total angstfest (which was admittedly all I saw the pairing s when I first began work on it), but gradually… It turned into something far from that. This chapter is only part I of III, so there is definitely more to come.

Expect much longer chapters for this particular story— this one was actually just over 4.5k words, which is very long for me, all things considered, so I suppose it's very good practice for me to write longer chapters as a general rule. XD

Feedback of any sort, as always, is welcome. Thank you very much for reading!


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